What it is, what it looks like (Quello che è, quello che sembra)

First, our love will die, alas,/then two hundred years will pass,/then we’ll meet again at last—This time in the theater, played/by a couple of comedians,/him and her, the public’s darlings.Just a little farce, with songs,/patter, jokes, and final bows,/a vaudeville comedy of manners,certain to bring down the house./You’ll amuse them endlessly/on the stage with your cravatand your petty jealousy./So will I, love’s silly pawn,/with my heart broken, my joy gone,my crown tumbling to the ground.To the laughter’s loud refrain,/we will meet and part again,/seven mountains, seven rivers/multiplying out pain.If we haven’t had enough/of despair, grief, all that stuff,/lofty words will kill us off.Then we’ll stand up, take our bows:/hope that you’ve enjoyed our show./every patron with his spouse/will applaud, get up, and go.They reenter their lives’ cages,/where love’s tiger sometimes rages,/but the beast’s too tame to bite.We’ll remain the odd ones out,/silly heathens in their fools’caps,/listening to the small bells ringingday and night.